


bulletproof

by salazarsslytherin (dust_ice_fire)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Panic Attacks, hand-wavy timeline, pre-season 3 ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2017152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_ice_fire/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Peter does not deal well with having to have wolfsbane burned out of his system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bulletproof

**Author's Note:**

> I've been holding onto this for a while because we actually had Peter dealing with having to have wolfsbane burned out of a wound, or whatever it is they do, so I kind of felt like an idiot because he was pretty chill with it in the episode. But then I figured - to hell with it, I love this kind of thing so I'm gonna post it anyway, but obviously this is now kind of AU-y.

Chris doesn’t see it; he’s sighting down his rifle and looking the other way, which is why it’s not until days later that he finds out from Derek that the bullets had actually been moments from hitting _him_.  He only hears the shots, hears a scuffle and a hiss of pain before he turns to see Peter’s knees hit the forest floor, blood already spreading across the white of his shirt.  

The werewolf gets swiftly to his feet, and Chris is forced to hastily dodge an arrow that comes whistling through the air, so the incident is pushed from his mind until the rogue hunters who’d descended on them flee the area, chased by furious growling and several warning shots.  Chris is triumphant as he turns back to Derek and Peter, triumph that dies a quick death as he takes in the state of the older Hale.

Peter is leaning heavily against a tree while Derek crouches over him, fingers digging into his shoulders, and Chris hears snatches of ‘ _leave now_ ’ and ‘ _they’ll be back_ ’ and ‘ _you don’t have much time_ ’ as he sprints over tangled roots and crumpled hedges to join them.

Derek swings around to shoot him a desperate sort of look and Chris doesn’t waste time with words, simply drops down beside Peter to sling an arm around him and haul him to his feet, Derek on the other side.  

“It’s _fine_ ,” Peter insists through gritted teeth that are already stained poison-black, but when they take a step his knees give out and he lets out a choked growl, spitting a mouthful of blood at their feet.  “Call Deaton.”

They ignore the suggestion in favour of getting him back to Chris’ SUV and bundling him into the back seats.  Derek leaps in after his uncle and demands to see the wounds while Chris floors the gas and breaks at least three different driving laws until they screech to a halt outside Derek’s loft in record time.

Getting Peter inside is a challenge; the wolfsbane is spreading quickly ( _too quickly, this is wrong, it’s all wrong_ ) through his system, but Derek and Chris manage it between them, half dragging him up the steps until he yanks away from them the second they’re through the door.

“Get Deaton on the phone,” Peter says again, his voice a little unsteady but determined nonetheless.  “Get him over here.”

Derek is already halfway across the loft, searching out something ( _heat_ , they need heat) that Peter is absolutely not going to want to deal with, but he turns at the order, shaking his head.  “We don’t know what sort of wolfsbane it is, I need to bu-”

“ _No_ ,” Peter grinds out.  He’s leaning heavily against Derek’s desk, shoulders hunched and t-shirt askew.  For what has to be the first time in his life, Chris wishes it wasn’t; he can see the network of black veins reaching up Peter’s neck and it’s _hard_ not to panic.  “Chr- _Argent_ ,” Peter snaps, eyes skirting around to look at Chris.  “Surely you have wolfsbane?”  His voice is not as derisive as he can usually make it, but it’s certainly not the familiar tone Chris has allowed himself to get used to; it’s not even the barely-tolerant one Peter tends to use when there are others around.

Chris shakes his head, takes several long strides to close most of the distance between them, though he avoids closing it altogether; Peter’s eyes keep slipping between their usual blue and unnatural brightness and he’s vibrating with tension.  He’ll have to get close soon, he knows, but it’ll be better if he and Derek can talk the wolf down first.  “Not on me,” he says, calmly as he can manage.  “And I don’t know the kind, either - Peter, you have to let Derek burn it out or it’s going to _kill you_.”

Peter starts to shake his head, winces as the movement sends new shivers of pain running through him and stops.  “It doesn’t matter what kind,” he snarls.  “Bring a variety.”

“No.  We’re not going to sit here and slowly poison you until _one_ of them starts to work,” Chris retorts furiously, and he catches Derek’s eye over Peter’s shoulder, notices the movement of his hand and the small blowtorch he subtly lets Chris see.  Chris nods; he understands.  Takes a breath, because this is going to be horrible, and for the next few moments, at least, Peter is going to hate him.  Then he lunges, wraps his arms about the werewolf’s waist and they both go down hard, landing in a tangle on the hard wooden floor.

Chris catches his shoulder against the desk on the way down and it burns with a blooming bruise but he grabs Peter’s wrists regardless, moving quickly to straddle his hips and pin him hard as Derek kneels beside them.  Peter growls furiously, kicks out at both of them, twists his hips beneath Chris’ weight in a way that’s too familiar for Chris to feel comfortable with, but he’s got wolfsbane running through his system and his attempts aren’t strong enough to throw the hunter off.

Derek swipes a claw along Peter’s shirt, yanks it away and grits his teeth against Peter’s fury as he moves to dig out the bullet - the _first_ bullet, because there are two, there are two bullets lodged in Peter’s side and that’s twice the amount of wolfsbane and they’re only inches from his heart and it’s getting _really hard_ to keep calm.  

As the second bullet clatters to the floor Derek pauses for a moment, looks across to Chris to say, “Hold him,” and Peter goes still.

“Don’t,” he pleads, gaze flicking between his nephew and his…whatever the hell Chris is.  “Don’t, Derek - _Christopher_ \- _don’t_ , it’s fine, just-”  He cuts himself off with a gasp as Derek flicks the lighter, the tiny snap of it igniting louder than it has any right to, the flare of light brighter than gunfire for a moment and reflected terribly in Peter’s wide eyes.  They’re glowing beta blue as he stares, breath hitching as the flame dances for a moment - it’s so tiny, it’s insignificant, it’s _nothing_ but even a spark is enough, a flame just like that tossed against gasoline-soaked floors and walls and _they’re screaming_ and Peter _can’t get to them_ and all it took was a tiny little flame and that was _it_.   

Chris watches the bob of Peter’s throat as he swallows at the hiss of the torch, grits his teeth, goes so rigid beneath Chris that it feels like he’s sitting atop a statue.  There’s a snap and a pop as Derek fumbles with the blowtorch (a distant part of Chris notes that it’s faintly alarming, the ease with which Derek gets his hands on the things) and Peter shudders.

“Look at me,” Chris growls, leaning as far into Peter’s space as he can without letting up the pressure that’s holding the wolf down at the hips.  “Peter, _look at me_.”  But he won’t and Chris has to adjust, gripping both of Peter’s wrists in one hand so he can grab his jaw and roughly turn his head.  “Look at me,” he repeats, not letting go, fingers so tight that Peter’s wolfsbane-weakened skin is already starting to bruise.  “Derek, _do it_.”  The fool is hesitating, torn between loyalty and loyalty, the kind thing and the right thing.

Peter comes back to life as the flame touches his skin, erupting into frenzied struggles that leave Chris panting as he fights to hold him down, to keep him still so Derek’s hand won’t slip.  He releases the man’s jaw to snatch Peter’s hands back as the wolf almost manages to fight free, banging them hard enough into the wood floor that he’s probably fractured some of Peter’s knuckles.  Peter’s eyes are too wide, white showing all around the irises, and his teeth are sharpening; Chris knows, because he sees them when Peter opens his mouth to let out a strangled scream.

It’s not pain; Peter can handle pain.  It’s pure panic and that makes it worse, somehow, because Peter’s not in anything even resembling his right mind as he fights to throw Chris off, as he curses Derek through seven circles of hell and drags his boots along the floor, twisting and writhing as though he has fire in his very veins while the flames scorch his skin and seal the wounds, burning out the poison and burning through whatever rationality Peter possesses.  

Chris isn’t sure when he started murmuring ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’, but he finds the words slipping past his lips over and over, though Peter’s too far lost inside his own head to hear.

When Derek lurches backwards and turns to the window to throw the dead torch as hard and far as he can, Peter shudders with exhaustion and his struggles die away.  Chris remains where he is, though he loosens his grip on Peter’s wrists and leans forward a little more.  Peter is pale, sickly looking, but even as he watches some colour starts to return.

Chris can feel the tremors that are vibrating beneath Peter’s skin, however, and he pulls in a shaky breath himself, hands moving to brush along Peter’s jaw, a thumb sweeping carefully at the corner of a still-closed eye.  He leans forward to press his forehead gently against Peter’s and closes his own eyes, hands drifting down to find places on Peter’s bare shoulders, his thumbs moving automatically to rub soothing lines along Peter’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice is quiet but there’s no way Derek will miss it; Chris doesn’t care by this point - he thinks that it’s fairly obvious now there’s something going on between the two of them and he’s not about to prioritise secrets over this.  “You’re okay now, you complete and utter _fool_.”  Peter’s a werewolf; he’s not allowed to get shot when his ridiculously advanced reflexes ought to preclude him from such things.  

Derek has tactfully wandered across to the other side of the loft, though God only knows what he’s finding to do over there; the place is pretty bereft aside from the few bits and pieces of furniture Peter had suggested and then forced Derek to get.

“I’m pretty sure you’re dislodging my pelvis,” Peter mutters, twisting pointedly beneath Chris, who grins and absolutely does _not_ grind back against the still-healing werewolf.  He’s more sensible than that.  Mostly.  

“You didn’t seem to mind the other night,” he mentions, and the lilt in his voice is a little lost on the fact that Chris is swimming in giddy relief so it’s pitched too high and, though he’s smiling, his expression hasn’t lost the hard worry that had come over him the moment he’d first seen blood.

“You were wearing significantly less clothing the oth-” Peter begins before he’s interrupted by Derek striding loudly back over to them, pointedly clearing his throat.

Chris reluctantly drags his gaze away from where the bruises on Peter’s jaw are fading and glances at Derek before he pushes himself to his feet and latches onto Peter’s hand, hauling him up as well.  His shoulders are hunched as he stands and he seems a little breathless, but the black is already disappearing from under his skin and the burns where Derek had closed the bullet holes are just shiny pink imperfections.

Derek’s eyebrows are so high on his head they’re literally closer to his hairline than his eyeballs, which is quite an achievement.  Chris is pretty sure his inner-Peter had supplied that observation, so he keeps it to himself.

“You’re…” Derek starts, looking between the two of them.  One of his hands jerks as though he’s going to point accusingly at them, but he aborts the movement halfway.  “You two…and…with each _other_ …”  He shakes his head, eyebrows settling back to their usual positions.  “Actually you know what?  I don’t want to know.”

“We need to track those hunters to their base, find out what they were doing here,” Peter says, determinedly ploughing past any awkwardness that might have arisen in a silence.  “They shouldn’t be on our territory, especially not with Argents here.”

Derek nods.  “We’ve got their scents now, we can start tracking them tomorrow - with all of us out there we can pick up the trail and follow it back.”  His eyes turn onto Chris.  “And if you could have a look at any families or factions that might be nearby, see if anyone’s heard anything, we might be able to figure out what they’re doing here.”

Chris nods, half of his mind running through the hunters he knows are vaguely local, the rest focused on the way Peter’s still not standing quite straight and the trails of black along his side that are fading but not fast enough for his liking.  “I’ll look into it and call you tomorrow,” Chris promises after a moment.  “I need to get going.”

Derek doesn’t protest, simply nods again and takes a slight step back as Chris turns to leave.  Peter doesn’t move until Chris reaches to guide him towards the door with a hand on the back of his neck.  “You’re coming with me.”

An eyebrow is arched in his direction, but Peter allows himself to be steered out of the loft, pausing only to nod at Derek in farewell before Chris has him out the door and back in the truck.

“Seatbelt,” Chris says automatically as he climbs in the driver’s side, because Peter could probably survive a crash but Chris would rather he didn’t have to, and the wolf won’t buckle in unless prompted.  Derek’s the same, and it’s endlessly frustrating, but at least if he’s driving Chris can insist on these things.  In fact even when he’s not driving he can usually insist on such things when Peter’s concerned, but that’s beside the point.

It’s going to be a bad night, Chris can tell; even if he hadn’t just witnessed everything first hand, Peter’s unnatural quiet would have given him away in a heartbeat.  Usually Chris can’t get him to shut up when they’re driving, but tonight Peter’s staring out the window, fists clenched loosely in his lap until Chris reaches out to take one and tangle their fingers together.

The gesture is the sort that Peter would be scathing of if he was in the mood to be - it’s too tender for most situations, too _normal_ for whatever it is they have, but tonight Peter’s fingers just tighten around his and he lets his head fall back against the seat.

It’s going to be a bad night, they both know it, but it’s not their first and it won’t be their last.  They’ll be okay.


End file.
